


Meet in the Middle

by Maicee



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, no beta we die like Glenn, there are some other characters and some really minor background relationships too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 19:57:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21124370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maicee/pseuds/Maicee
Summary: Snippets of Lysithea and Cyril throughout the years, from the Officer's Academy to years later.





	Meet in the Middle

**Author's Note:**

> hi hello look at this thing i got a bit carried away didn't i rip
> 
> bUT i didn't choose any route in particular for this, though i'd say it'd probably be some mashup of blue lions and golden deer. also please keep in mind there are references to support conversations in this!

The first time he sees her, he can't help but think of how  _ young _ she looks.

It's only a week or so into the new term when he's walking past the academy courtyard with provisions for the dining hall. This is a regular enough trip for him, and he knows exactly where to walk so as not to disturb the classrooms, but that doesn't seem to be an issue for the Golden Deer House, who have taken to leisurely training in the grass nearby. He recognises most of their faces, but isn’t able to put names to all of them. He figures that’s okay. It isn’t as though it’ll affect his work.

He takes only a single step forward before an arrow flies past him, lodging itself into the wall mere centimetres from his face. He stops in surprise and hears a loud, “Sorry, Cyril! I didn’t mean to!” from somewhere in the congregation of students. No one runs over to collect the arrow, though.

That is, until a small silvery-haired girl interrupts him just as he’s about to leave, stopping in front of him to retrieve the arrow. He decides not to draw attention to the way she has to stand on her tip-toes to reach it, especially when she lets out an exasperated sigh that he isn’t sure he was supposed to hear.

“You would think Leonie would collect her weapons and apologize  _ before  _ letting Claude and Raphael encourage another friendly competition,” she said, and he isn’t sure whether she’s addressing him or not until she looks at him directly. “Cyril, was it? My apologies for her carelessness.”

“Lysithea! Hurry up!”

“Coming!” she says, and she’s already rushing back to her class without another word.

The interaction ultimately doesn’t mean much, and he’s all but forgotten about it by the end of the day.

  
  
  


The first time she notices him —  _ truly  _ notices him — is when she’s studying in the library. She tries not to make a habit of staying in the library too late (which has nothing to do with ghosts, thank you very much), but it’s inevitable when she’s surrounded by papers and old documents and lengthy books full of information she never would have found anywhere else. This setup is comforting in a lot of ways. It’s as if the clutter is a reminder that she is working hard, and when she finally feels satisfied enough to pack everything away, it means she is leaving a little more knowledgeable than she was when she arrived.

People come and go from the library, just as they come and go from any place in the monastery, and Lysithea has learned to tune them out. Sometimes she will hear bits and pieces of conversations, but they are rarely enough to shake her from her studies.

Of course, rarely doesn’t mean never.

“It’s him again. I know he’s just a child, but you can’t help but wonder what Lady Rhea was thinking in bringing him here. You never know what those people are capable of.”

Lysithea raises her head, briefly wondering if the nearby monk is pointing out a threat, but that concern is dashed the moment she follows the monks’ gazes and sees Cyril. She can’t tell whether he’s heard the gossipers or not, his back to them as he shelves a tall pile of books, but she frowns anyway. She can’t say she’s ever had a proper conversation with Cyril before, but she has definitely seen him. Now that she thinks about it, she doesn’t think she has ever seen him rest, or even sit down. He is always on the move, always has a job to finish, always working hard.

In that sense, she supposes she can relate to him.

“Excuse me. Lady Lysithea, yes?” She doesn’t particularly want to talk to the chattering monks, especially when one of them leans down with a smile one would show to an infant. “It’s getting late, you should hurry back to your quarters before you fall asleep here.”

This isn’t the first time someone older and larger has treated her like a young child, but the bitterness she usually feels is double what it usually is, and so it is no surprise when she fixes them with an expressionless stare and a deadpan, “I’m not finished, thank you.”

  
  
  


Cyril doesn’t think he should be surprised at the newest professor agreeing to recruit him, considering their track record amongst the students, but he finds himself pleasantly surprised anyway. He isn’t one of their students, and yet he almost finds himself being treated as one. It’s oddly comforting.

Being allowed to assist the professor’s class (though he doesn’t know how much assisting he can really do when he barely finds himself up to par with their students half the time) means coming into contact with the academy’s students more often than before. It can be a bit isolating, knowing he is close in age with these students, yet not truly being part of them. It isn’t that they are unkind to him. Far from it. It can just be a little  _ intimidating _ .

He thinks this as they ready themselves for a training battle against the knights. The other students are preparing their training gear while talking amongst themselves, and while he exchanged pleasantries with a few of them in passing, he doesn’t want to force his way into any of their conversations. He’s only here to hone his skills, anyway.

“Hello, Cyril. Are you joining us again?”

Lysithea has appeared to his left, and he inclines his head her way in acknowledgement. “Yeah. I’m ahead of schedule on my chores, so the professor asked if I wanted to join you guys. Shamir’s been busy on knight business, so she hasn’t been able to teach me recently.”

She hums, a quiet sound that he can barely hear. “You know, you can always come and train with us at the training grounds.”

The thought is a kind one, but he can’t help but be hesitant. He doesn’t know if he feels comfortable training with anyone other than Shamir, not to mention the barrier he feels whenever he spends time with the students, but Lysithea doesn’t need to know that.

“I’ll think about it,” he eventually says, right before the professor calls them over for a debriefing.

  
  
  


Lysithea stares at her hands. There isn’t anything odd about them, no cuts or bruises or torn nails that one might expect from combat. Magic use didn’t require all that much stress on them, something she hadn’t realised until now. It isn’t that it  _ bothers  _ her per say, but right now all they are good for is to serve as a reminder of her foolishness.

Perhaps it was hypocritical for her to insist on helping Cyril when she constantly refuses help from those around her (actually, it’s  _ very  _ hypocritical, and she could stand to reflect on that a bit more), but she had done so anyway. Or, at least, she’d tried to. Not only had she made things more difficult on the both of them, but she’d been given a firm talking to about ‘learning her lesson’. She can’t even find it in herself to be indignant. She deserved it.

What really gets to her is what he told her afterwards.

_ “You’re just not cut out for this kinda work. Look at your hands, they’re like a princess’. No point in you learning to chop wood, is there? You don’t need to know how to do that stuff. You and me live in different worlds. There’s no point in lowering yourself down into mine.” _

She can’t deny that her hands are likely softer than his, nor can she say she has ever needed to learn how to chop wood, but she doesn’t see why that automatically means she can’t learn. Who is he to decide that doing so would mean lowering herself? She may be a noble, but she couldn’t care less for the title. A difference in wealth and status will do little to deter her from interacting with whoever she wishes to.

To do otherwise would be  _ true  _ foolishness.

  
  
  


It isn’t rare for Cyril to see Lysithea in the library. When he enters the room with the intention of stacking books or dusting shelves, more often than not, she is right there, surrounded by a plethora of books. She is always in her element, quill in hand as she scribbles notes at such a fast pace that it would be difficult for him to keep up with even if he did know how to read. She is studious, that much he can tell.

This night, however, he is surprised. The monastery has been turned upside down with Flayn’s disappearance, and with it has come a certain cautiousness that wasn’t all there half a moon ago. Students, female students in particular, have been returning to their quarters earlier than usual, and no one in the monastery has dared to wander the grounds alone, especially after dark.

Yet here she is, alone in the library long after the sun has disappeared.

He leaves her be at first. He has a job to do, after all, and that takes precedence over everything else. Besides, it isn’t as though he can’t see her out of the corner of his eye. If anything came her way, he would see it.

After the stack of books have been shelved in their correct places, he heads straight for Lysithea’s table. She is so focused on reading her current page that she doesn’t see him approach, and so he stands there a little awkwardly for a moment before saying, “Lysithea? It’s getting late.”

She blinks, slowly raising her head to look at him before searching the rest of the library, likely to confirm that they were the only two left in the library. “Oh, I didn’t realise. I’m not quite finished yet, though…”

“Isn’t it dangerous?” he asks. “I mean, with Flayn missing and all.”

She rubs her eyes, drawing attention to the bags beneath them. “That’s why I’m here.”

“It is?”

“We haven’t been able to physically locate Flayn yet, but we do have an idea of who might have taken her,” she says, and he knows exactly who she’s speaking of: the Death Knight. “What I’m trying to figure out is  _ why _ . Perhaps in doing so, I’ll be able to uncover some information that will help us.”

“Oh. Have you found anything?”

She sighs, and that is already answer enough. “Unfortunately, no. I’m starting to wonder if it didn’t necessarily have to be Flayn, but she was instead the easiest target.”

Cyril leans back from the table, finger on his chin. “You think she was the first ideal person the kidnapper saw?”

“Maybe.” Lysithea shuts her book. “Flayn is a kind, loving, generous girl, and it’s precisely that sort of behaviour that could make her an easy target. She’s sweet, but also somewhat…  _ naive _ . If a stranger approached her under the pretence of asking for help, it’s likely that she would go along with them without question.”

Cyril nods. He can understand that, he supposed. “Then I guess the question is why the need to kidnap anyone?”

Another sigh. “Why does anyone commit such heinous crimes? Either way, I think I’m done here for the night. I’m sorry for distracting you from your work, Cyril.”

“Don’t worry about it, I was already done anyway,” he says. “Are you heading back to your room by yourself?”

“That was my intention,” she says, already returning her books to their rightful places. “I should be fine.”

_ Should  _ be fine isn’t the same as  _ will  _ be fine. “Still, just in case, do you mind if I walk with ya? I have to go to the greenhouse for my last job, anyway, so it’s not out of the way.”

Her hair swishes to one side as she turns to him again, her surprise barely concealed. “Well, I’m sure I would be fine on my own, but as long as you’re offering. It’d probably be best for neither of us to go alone.”

He assents and they’re on their way.

  
  
  


She absent-mindedly pokes at a bruise on her knee as she watches the fishing tournament play out. She can’t say that fishing is something that interests her, and she can’t remember a time where she’s ever been made to fish for whatever reason. Her sudden fixation on the event is based solely on the need for a distraction, nothing more, nothing less, and so she watches without paying attention as she sits on the stairs leading up to her row of dormitories.

Occasionally, her gaze flickers to her left, very aware that the training grounds are in that direction. Her several glances per minute thin out to one every two once she realises that the likeliness of Professor Hanneman following her after their little disagreement is very slim. The thought is comforting. He may lack empathy, but he isn’t completely oblivious.

Perhaps her training tired her out more than she anticipated, as the anger she felt towards the crest scholar has dissipated rather quickly. She’s been taught by him long enough to know that he doesn’t mean any harm with his questions, and it isn’t as though his curiosity is unfounded: having two crests is unheard of. She is a complete enigma to all but those who made her this way in the first place, and it isn’t as though she can refer him to them. She was so young when it happened that their faces are merely a blur in the back of her mind. All she wants is for people to stop telling her that she has a  _ gift _ . Is that so much to ask?

“—sithea? Lysithea?”

If asked later, she will absolutely deny jumping further along the step after snapping out of her reverie, as well as the way she stares at Cyril for a second too long as she gathers her thoughts. She shakes her head and looks down.

“Sorry, Cyril. I wasn’t paying attention.”

“That’s okay. I was just worried, that’s all,” he says, moving down the steps until he stands on the one she’s sitting on. “You seem kinda out of it.”

That isn’t surprising, and she doesn’t want to lie, but she doesn’t particularly feel like telling the truth, either. “Do I?” is all she says to the accusation, and she can’t even look at him while she says it. “Are you here for the tournament?”

“Well, I’m supposed to be,” he says, staring ahead at the fishing pond’s sparkling waters. “Seteth told me I should give it a shot and even let me off of my jobs for the day, but… I’m not the type for fishing.”

The laugh that leaves her is short and breathless. She’s too tired for a proper one. “Me neither. I’m content just watching. You’re free to join me if you want.”

She hadn’t come here with the intention of keeping any company, but if there is anyone she can trust not to bring up the subject of crests, it’s Cyril.

Cyril hesitates. She can tell that much without looking at him, but she doesn’t press further, allowing herself the small victory when he finally sits down beside her, on the opposite end of the step. They’re surely blocking the way for anyone who wants to walk through, but the area is near-deserted with everyone so focused on fishing.

“By the way, you didn’t really answer me.”

She pulls her gaze away from Caspar almost falling into the pond below to raise an eyebrow at Cyril. “Answer you?”

“I said that you seem kinda out of it, but you didn’t really say if you were or not,” he says, then pauses. “It’s really none of my business, anyway.”

She feels the same  _ tug  _ from when he told her they live in two different worlds, a lurch of her stomach and the need to correct him, to say that isn’t the case. After all, they’re friends, aren’t they? Him being concerned is more than she could ask for.

Still, explaining her demeanour means mentioning the issue with her crests, and she can’t have that, so she says, “It’s just been a long morning. At least, that’s what it feels like. I appreciate you being concerned about me, though.”

“No problem. I —” Cyril stops, a frown forming. “Is Raphael trying to catch a fish with his bare hands?”

When she looks over, Raphael is, indeed, floundering at the edge of the peer with his hands in the water while Caspar cheers him on and Ignatz attempts to put a stop to the whole mess. ‘Attempts’ being the key word.

Her head falls in her hands. “I’m not even surprised.”

  
  
  


Cyril almost feels as though he shouldn’t be here, watching the Battle of the Eagle and Lion with Shamir on one side and Catherine on the other, as if he belongs with the knights. He’d been brought along in case there needed to be any last minute preparations, but he was sure that would be unnecessary. He helped pack and tended to the horses on their journey, as well as any other odd jobs Lady Rhea needed doing, but now he simply stands idle, watching.

“The Blue Lions have got this in the bag,” Catherine is saying as the students take their positions.

“You’re biased,” Shamir says. “Each house has some strong players this year.”

“Hey, I’m just relying on my instincts.”

“Your instincts are only useful on the battlefield.”

“Was that a compliment, Shamir?”

“Did I make it sound like one? My mistake.”

Cyril is about to tune them out, but finds he doesn’t have to. The horn plays and the crowd grows silent. The house leaders say something to their peers that he can’t hear before each giving the signal, and all at once, they’re off.

The battlefield descends into chaos. For the most part, anyway. If Cyril were to describe it, he would use the ‘organized mess’ term that Manuela is so fond of using when one sees the infirmary after one of her  _ nights _ . It would be easy to write the entire battle off as a free-for-all, but that isn’t the case. He can tell that there are formations rising on each side of the battlefield, that people aren’t ducking behind trees simply to avoid being trampled on. Every action taken has a purpose.

A sudden swarm of black and purple catches his attention and he fixes his attention on the activity in the very centre of the field. The professor’s house has just about seized the entire hill, mostly thanks to Lysithea, the origin of the magic blasts that caught his attention a moment ago. There are others around her, but he finds his gaze drawn to her as she advances from behind knocking away the opposing students with heavy armour.

This isn’t the first time he’s seen her magic in action. Assisting the professor with some of their more tame missions also means learning aspects of his fellow fighters, like their styles and weapons, not to mention the way they move on the field. This is different, though. There is never enough time for him to appreciate the form of his fellow fighters when the battle is raging around him, but it’s different when he has a bird’s eye view of the entire fight. From this angle, he can see just how beautiful the swirl of colour is, the way her body moves with confidence with each strike. There are other students who use the same spells that she does, but none of them move with such fluidity and purpose. They don’t throw themselves into action the same way she does.

It isn’t a surprise when her house wins the battle, either, and he finds himself smiling the slightest bit as he claps with everyone else.

  
  
  


A book sits on Lysithea’s lap, but she hasn’t touched it for some time. She’d initially picked it up for its information on magic experimentation, wanting to make some sense of what they’d witnessed in Remire Village, but all she’s earned herself so far is nausea at the memories, both new and old.

Her earliest memories are of masked individuals with dark magic that makes her hair stand on end, of pain scorching her soft skin, of screams that she can’t identify (or are they her own?). Of the time where everything changed.

She has a certain understanding of what the victims must have gone through. Not only those left behind, but those who were reduced to ash long after becoming something other than themselves. They had to strike them down to save everyone, but in the end, they were victims too. There are no winners in such cruel experiments.

She would know.

The past consuming her every thought, the sun disappearing below the horizon doesn’t register for a long while. She stares at the descending star without truly looking at it, watching without seeing, and it’s almost entirely gone when she feels the tap on her shoulder.

She inwardly curses herself for dropping her guard, even if it’s only Cyril. With everything that’s happened lately, she should be on her guard at all times, something she usually prides herself on.

_ Get it together, Lysithea. _

“Lysithea? What are you doing out here all alone?” Cyril gestures to the outlook a few steps away from the bench she’d called home for the afternoon. “You haven’t had dinner yet, have you?”

She shakes her head, both as an answer and to rid herself of any remaining lethargy. “No, I haven’t. Thank you, Cyril. Are you heading to the dining hall, too?”

“That was the plan, yeah,” he says. “But only after I’ve made sure the horses have all been fed and locked in their stables.”

“I’ll come with you, then,” she says without thinking, and when he scrunches his nose, the tell-tale sign that he’s about to protest, she continues. “I’m not that hungry right now, anyway, so maybe I’ll have more of an appetite by the time we’re finished.”

It isn’t exactly a lie — she isn’t the slightest bit peckish right now. Quite the opposite. Diving into unwanted memories tends to do that to her.

Cyril doesn’t answer at first, likely still unsure, but eventually nods slowly. “Okay. You can lock the stables while I make sure everything is in the right spot, if you want.”

She smiles, making a conscious effort not to let her relief show. “That’s perfectly fine with me.” She gestures towards him. “After you.”

The first half of their walk is spent in silence, the only sounds being the crickets and muffled voices from the more populated areas at this time of night, like the dining and reception halls. As the sky becomes darker, Lysithea’s desire to head inside where she can properly see her surroundings (and, more importantly, to not have to be concerned about ghosts) grows, but not so much that she changes her mind. As much as she wanted to be alone before, now she appreciates Cyril’s company. It isn’t unbearably loud, but she can still tell he’s right there beside her. It’s comforting.

“Lysithea? Are you cold?”

Her mind wandered so far that she hadn’t realise how her hands have latched onto her arms, holding them tight. She thinks it may have been to brace herself — for what, she doesn’t know — but now that he mentions it, the air is chillier than it was when she was sitting by the lookout. Still, that doesn’t compare to the way memories have been sending chills down her spine all day.

“No, it isn’t that I’m cold or anything,” she says, and even she can hear the hesitance in her voice.

She can see the stables in the distance when he says, “You know, sometimes it’s good to talk about things that are bothering you. It doesn’t have to be me, of course, but I’ll definitely listen. If not me, at least tell someone else.”

She doesn’t know what she must look like, with her wide eyes and open mouth, but she manages to recollect herself in a matter of seconds. “I — I’ll think about it. Thanks, Cyril.”

“No problem.”

  
  
  


“I still don’t know about this,” Cyril tells Seteth, fiddling with the sleeves of his makeshift formal outfit. They’re too short, leaving his wrists exposed, and it bothers him.

“Trust me, it’ll do you some good,” Seteth says, walking in step with Cyril as they enter the ballroom. “You may not be a student, but you do fight alongside many of them from time to time. If they’re allowed to take a break, so are you.”

Cyril still isn’t sure, and taking a sweeping glance at the ballroom doesn’t change that. He knows how to clean windows and chop wood, but attending a ball, let alone  _ dancing _ , isn’t something within his skillset. He’s about to say as much to Seteth when he notices him glowering at something across the room and decides that now isn’t the best time to speak up.

“Apologies, Cyril.” Seteth is already heading to a spot on the other side of the room. “I believe someone has taken a fancy to Flayn again. If you’ll excuse me.”

And just like that, Seteth has disappeared into the crowd of people, leaving Cyril lonely at the door.

Cyril sighs, but he can’t say he’s surprised. Flayn will always be the top priority in Seteth’s mind, and he can’t exactly fault him for that, but now he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“Oh! Is that Cyril?”

He hears Hilda before he sees her. She approaches him with a bright smile, looking more jubilant than he has ever seen her before. The scent of her perfume is overwhelming and she is so very  _ pink _ , but he supposes talking to her is better than standing awkwardly to the side for the rest of the night, and so he tries not to breathe too deeply and deal with it.

“It  _ is  _ you! You look so adorable in formal wear!” Hilda gushes. “I didn’t know you’d be attending!”

“Neither did I until Seteth told me I should.”

“Good on Seteth, making — oh, Lysithea! Come here!”

Just as Hilda’s attention had been quick to turn to him, it just as quickly focuses on Lysithea. He doesn’t see her at first, likely due to her small stature, but she appears beside Hilda in barely any time at all, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

That’s what he notices first: that he hair isn’t down. Most of it has been gathered in an updo, braids leading to a bun lightly adorned with jewels. The purple and silver necklace she wears matches her gown, flowery lace making up the bodice, and he thinks she might be wearing makeup.

He doesn’t know much about fashion, or rather, he doesn’t know anything about it at all, but he does know one thing — Lysithea is exceptionally beautiful.

“Look, Seteth made Cyril come!” Hilda’s voice is enough to break his trance, and he’s thankful she isn’t talking to him this time.

“I figured it would be something like that,” Lysithea says, then turns to him. “You couldn’t escape either, then?”

Hilda huffs, ready to retort when something over Lysithea’s shoulder makes her stop, and she barrels past her with a shout of, “Hey, Lorenz! We said it was  _ my  _ turn to dance with Marianne next!”

Cyril and Lysithea watch her leave, Lorenz’s protests barely heard above the music and the rest of the crowd, until she has disappeared completely. Cyril wonders whether she’s a human or a whirlwind.

“There she goes,” Lysithea says, quiet enough that he isn’t sure if it was meant for his ears. He knows she’s speaking to him, however, when she looks over and says, “Do you plan on staying for the whole night or escaping at the earliest opportunity?”

His instincts tell him to run. Maybe not literally, and not from Lysithea herself, but from the ball as a whole. He is far out of his depth among all these people dressed as fancy as they can possibly be. He may be wearing formal clothes himself, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he belongs in them. The skin beneath his collar itches.

“Part of me wants to, but Seteth went out of his way to find clothes for me to wear and everything, so I’d feel bad if I just left,” he says.

“I know how you feel,” Lysithea says, a sigh in her voice. “I’ve been to a few formal parties before, but I preferred to find the library and stay there. The only reason I haven’t escaped yet is because Hilda insisted on helping me get ready, and I promised her I would force myself to stay for at least half the event. I suppose I just feel a bit restless when I’m not doing anything productive.”

That, Cyril can understand. His entire schedule is structured around the work he has to do, only leaving time for meal breaks and sleep of a night. He can never  _ not  _ be doing something.

“Me too. I guess we’re both stuck here then, huh?”

Cyril doesn’t know when he became able to decipher the simplest of Lysithea’s expressions, but he can automatically tell when she’s thinking about something. The slight roll of her eyes towards the ceiling and the tap of her finger against her cheek tells him all he needs to know.

“Perhaps we are, but that doesn’t mean we have to stay in this stuffy ballroom.”

That isn’t what he expected. “What do you mean?”

The corners of her mouth turn upwards and he’s reminded of a few weeks ago in the dining hall when she offered to help him with his shopping list, along with the smile she’d shown him before leaving. It isn’t the same, a fraction of what it could be, but he’ll take what he can get.

He follows her through the crowd, taking note of the way she avoids her fellow house members. If what she wants is a break from the excitement, it makes sense that she would stay away from most of her house, many of them notorious for not being the most  _ lowkey  _ of people. At least, that’s what he’s heard (and, on occasion, witnessed).

She stops at an open door that leads to a balcony, more than enough space for the two of them in its deserted state. Neither of them look back as they step into the cool night air.

Lysithea breathes deeply, closing her eyes and grasping the railing with her gloved hands. Cyril can only watch, wondering just how long she had to endure amongst the overwhelming crowd, and it takes him a moment to stand at a respectable distance beside her with his hands shoved in his pockets.

“That’s better,” Lysithea says. Her eyes now open, her gaze doesn’t leave the view of the monastery below. “Oh, but —” As if only just remembering he’s there, she looks at Cyril. “You don’t have to stay out here with me, of course. It was only an idea.”

“No, I… I think I like it better out here,” he says, removing his hands from his pockets so he can tap his fingers against the railing. “I don’t think I’d have much fun in there. I don’t even know how to dance.”

To her credit, Lysithea doesn’t react with shock, or as if it’s something that needs to be fixed right away. Why would he need to learn how to dance when his work has never had any need for it? Perhaps she understands that, or perhaps she has her own reasons for not being surprised. He wouldn’t know.

“Before tonight, I hadn’t danced in a long time. I’ve never really kept up with such things, not like Lorenz and Hilda have. It can be fun, but not as much when you have to keep up appearances,” she says.

“At least you were able to pluck up the courage to go out there.” He gestures vaguely behind him to where the dancefloor stands.

Her laugh is a short one. “Only with my other house members. Most of them were fairly eager, aside from Marianne, of course. Be that as it may, I don’t think I have much dancing energy left in me.”

“I don’t know if I’d dance with anyone if I could dance,” Cyril admits quietly.

He isn’t looking at Lysithea directly, but the view in his peripheral shows her turning to him. He can’t see her expression, but she doesn’t speak at first, so he doesn’t know what she’s thinking.

“Would you like to try?”

The question isn’t pushy. All he can hear in her voice is curiosity, and considering how abrasive she can be in the best of times, that is a feat in itself. He finally meets her gaze with what he can only assume is a look of surprise. She doesn’t waver, however, but her eyes also don’t probe him. They wait patiently.

“I — I don’t think I’d be that good at it,” he says, but he’s already turning his whole body to face her.

Somehow, the idea of dancing with Lysithea doesn’t seem so bad.

“It’s okay, I can teach you what I know.” The air of authority she often has is back, but far more subdued than usual. Softer.

“Then… okay.”

His decision is worth it the moment she smiles. A proper smile. Something in her eyes sparkle and he wonders if it’s a trick of the light, but doesn’t have time to dwell on it as she gently takes his arms and moves them so one hand is on her waist and the other is clasped in her own. Her free hand settles on his shoulder.

“Alright,” she starts, “just move in time with me.”

It’s hard at first. It takes him a good few seconds to realise she’s moving to the tempo of the music playing inside, but even then he’s a little clumsy, stepping on her feet more than once. She doesn’t seem to mind. She laughs it off and tells him that everyone starts from the bottom and that he can only go up from here. He remains hesitant until he can feel himself flowing to the music and the toe-stepping incidents become few and far between.

When he finally allows himself to look up from his shoes, he meets her smiling face and kind eyes and thinks that if he  _ does  _ have to dance for the rest of the night, he wouldn’t mind doing so with her.

  
  
  


Lysithea isn’t usually one for praying. She leaves the prayers of protection to Marianne and the noble piety to Lorenz and rarely, if ever, comes to the cathedral of her own accord. It isn’t that she doesn’t believe the goddess exists, but more so that she doesn’t protect them solely for believing in them. After all, her parents asked for protection for their entire family, yet their cries went unanswered.

Still, there are exceptions. She doesn’t often pray for the living, but she does for the dead, and the death of Jeralt Eisner is tragic enough to lead her to the cathedral doors the day after his passing. She sees she isn’t the only one. There are more knights than usual, more people congregating at the front to pray. Familiar faces are peppered here and there, but one in particular grabs her attention.

Cyril stands front and centre with his head bowed and hands clasped together. She doesn’t think she has ever seen him pray before, and she wouldn’t be surprised if he came for the same reason she did. She deliberates by the pews for a moment before deciding a bit of company would be nice right now, even if they don’t speak to each other, and so she walks forward and stops to his left.

He doesn’t acknowledge her, if he even notices her there at all, and rightfully so. She wouldn’t want to interrupt him. Instead, she closes her eyes and bows her head in prayer. She isn’t the type for long-winded spiels when she speaks to the goddess, preferring to be direct, and so that’s what she does.

She finishes mere seconds after Cyril, who she could hear muttering under his breath the entire time, and raises her head only to see him already looking at her.

“Lysithea, I didn’t realise you were here.”

“I wasn’t about to disturb your prayers,” she says. “That would just be rude.”

“Right. Still…” Cyril trails off, scratching the back of his neck. “Are you here for Captain Jeralt, too?”

She nods. “I’m not much for praying unless it’s to guarantee safe passage to the goddess’ side.” And even then, she doesn’t know if her requests are heard.

“Me neither.” Cyril moves aside as a duo of knights pass them without so much as a glance in their direction.

“Do you have many jobs to do today?” she finds herself asking, eyes wandering to the increasing amount of believers moving to the front of the cathedral.

“No, Lady Rhea barely gave me anything today.”

“Then do you have time for a late breakfast? I believe the dining hall will be open for another hour.”

It’s only when the offer is out there that she realises just how much she doesn’t want to be alone right now. She could just as easily find one of her house members, but they are all mourning in their own ways, and she doesn’t know if she wants to go out of her way to track them down only to be rejected. They would have every right to, of course, but she doesn’t particularly feel like taking risks right now.

But Cyril is here, right in front of her, and that somehow makes her feel better.

There is the briefest flicker of surprise in his eyes before he says, “Sure, let’s go.”

  
  
  


They are at war.

It doesn’t sink in at first. All he thinks when Shamir tells him the details is that someone wants to hurt Lady Rhea and that he has to put a stop to it. It isn’t until later when he watches the knights gather and the residents of the monastery making last minute preparations for the upcoming battle that it occurs to him just how dire the situation is. This isn’t just about Lady Rhea, but about the church as a whole. Perhaps the entire of Fodlan, too.

As he saddles his wyvern and readies his bow, he wonders whether he should be more nervous. Assisting the professor and their class with bandits once in a while is far different from defending the monastery from an entire army, after all, and the Adrestian forces are no petty criminals. Yet his faith in Lady Rhea and, by extension, the forces at her command remains unshakable. Shamir advises him to be more realistic, but he refuses to think that way.

They  _ will  _ win.

With the Imperial army in the distance, the scouts keeping them updated on their advancement, the professor summons their makeshift defence squadron and gives them a rundown of their strategy. It’s strange to see Lady Rhea with them, and he can’t help but worry about her standing with them during the fight, but her expression is one of sheer determination. She isn’t about to leave them behind. Despite his concern, it’s comforting, in a way.

Their plan is to form a defence on all sides, and Cyril doesn’t think he’s ever paid such close attention to a strategy before. Those with flying mounts and ranged attacks are to stay further back as support rather than on the frontlines, and not only does his position leave him closer to Rhea, but it also places him beside Lysithea, who has become somewhat notorious for her attack range. She’s powerful, and having her nearby gives him a sense of security.

He will still look out for her on the battlefield, naturally. It’s what comrades do.

He doesn’t have a chance to speak to her until the Empire is yards away from knocking down their door. She bears a shield in one hand and a magic staff in the other, and despite being one of the smallest fighters on the battlefield, holds herself up with such a dignified air that he would think her as tall as his wyvern. People are making last minute preparations and talking amongst themselves, but not her. She stares straight ahead, waiting for the oncoming threat.

At first, he hesitates to talk to her. He doesn’t want to interrupt her thoughts, whatever they may be, but then she turns her head and their eyes meet, as if she could read his mind. They do nothing but share a look, one that conveys everything, yet nothing at all. He doesn’t know how to describe it.

“I’ll keep an eye out for archers on the ground,” she says eventually, her pointed gaze leaving his own to scan the sea of soldiers. “I’ll defeat them with magic before they can aim any arrows in your direction.”

In the time that he’s known Lysithea, he’s become able to translate some of the meanings behind her words, and he finds the meaning here very clear:  _ I’ll watch out for you. _

The nod of acknowledgement he gives her isn’t enough to convey his reciprocation, so he says, “I’ll watch your back from up high. No one’s gonna give you a surprise attack.”

Her small smile is full of nerves, but he doesn’t comment on it. Even if he wanted to, the Imperial army take that exact moment to burst through their first defences, spurring them into action.

  
  
  


The monastery is in chaos.

Lysithea doesn’t have a moment to waste as she strikes an archer here and a pegasus knight there. Her senses are in hyperdrive, hair rising on her skin as magic flows through her, reacting to her tense state. A second wasted could lead to her demise.

She takes down a swordmaster aiming for Leonie when she spots a trio of archers several metres away. They pull back the string with an arrow already notched, aiming for the sky above, and it’s then that her instincts take over. There is only one enemy in the sky whose presence is bothersome enough for multiple archers to aim for them at once, and she isn’t about to let them touch him.

“Cyril!” she calls without taking her eyes off of the enemy, trusting that he will hear her. She doesn’t have time to check if he has. She’s already hexing the first archer, flinging them back into the crowd.

Only one of the remaining two have caught on to her presence, but she doesn’t aim for them. She focuses on the sniper whose eyes remain trained on the sky, moving their bow and arrow from side to side in an attempt to aim for Cyril’s weak spot. Ignoring the one aiming for her is a risk, she knows, but she isn’t the one who has a weakness to arrows. She has to trust that she can take any aimed her way.

Her magic knocks the bow out of the archer’s hands, alerting them to her presence, but before she can raise her staff for another strike, there is a sudden pain in her shoulder. She doesn’t need to look down to know an arrow has lodged itself in there. Tightly, if the ache is anything to go by.

“Lysithea!”

Cyril’s call is drowned out by a portion of the monastery’s outer walls falling, crumbling into rubble. Adrestian soldiers are waiting on the other side, and the moment the dust has cleared, they storm in with their weapons raised. Edelgard must have called for reinforcements.

“Don’t worry about me!” she shouts, enveloping an archer in a cyclone of dark magic while she shoves the other one out of her way, easy enough to do when her enemy is down a weapon.

With her adversaries taken care of (at least until their friends come for her), she risks looking up. She doesn’t know what she looks like, pierced by an arrow with blood, most of it not her own, covering her clothes, but he seems seconds away from swooping down to help her.

She can’t have that, not when there are more pressing matters to attend to.

“Round up the reinforcements!” She doesn’t have the best view of the battlefield, but even she can see the way the spare soldiers are heading straight for the monastery gates. “Don’t let them break our inner defenses!”

That snaps Cyril into action, and he gives her one last determined nod before flying further into the monastery grounds.

It’s the last she sees him for five years.

  
  
  


Returning to the monastery is bittersweet. Lady Rhea is still missing and they don’t have any new leads to finding her, but they do have the professor back, as well as a base for them to work from. He can’t help but feel guilty at the state the monastery itself is in. Dust pollutes the air whenever they kick up their feet and cobwebs inhabit every corner of the cathedral, not to mention the broken statues, pillars and walls that haven’t been touched since the battle five years ago.

It hasn’t changed since he last saw it, and neither has the professor. He’s starting to wonder if he is the only one who has changed in the last five years when the professor’s former students file in. They’ve all grown since he last saw them, just as he has. He watches all of them, taking in their appearances.

And that’s when he sees her.

Lysithea has grown taller, the same as him, but where they may have been around the same height five years ago, he can tell that she’s shorter than him now. Her clothes are what he would expect from a noble, and her hair is near perfect despite the state of their surroundings, but that isn’t what grabs his attention the most. In fact, there isn’t anything specific. She’s grown more mature, more beautiful, in a way that could only be befitting of Lysithea.

Seteth speaks and his attention is drawn away, but she remains in his peripheral throughout the rest of their impromptu meeting.

  
  
  


When returning to the monastery, Lysithea had been fully prepared to be the only member of her house to show up. She’d been in for a pleasant surprise when she not only saw her housemates and the professor, but members of the church. Following through with their five year promise seemed like a foolish decision at the time, but now she’s glad she made the trip.

The small amount of church members gathered haven’t changed much that she can tell (which makes no sense in regards to Flayn, but some people don’t have their growth spurt for a long time, she supposes), and she’s about to look away when she hears a familiar voice. The person it belongs to is also familiar, but also  _ not _ , and she stops.

Cyril is taller, broader, and she can tell that he’s definitely been busy, training and fighting, likely with the Knights of Seiros. What hasn’t changed is his fierce expression and the aura of determination he exudes. She remembers it from the battle five years ago, the last time she saw him, and she briefly wonders why she remembers such a thing when there have been far more important events in between to make her forget.

Regardless, it’s good to see him. She would be lying is she said her thoughts hadn’t wandered to him while trapped in Ordelia territory. Murmurs about the Knights of Seiros and their search for Rhea reached her ears from time to time, and it would ultimately lead her to wonder whether the knights and members of the church she’d known — Cyril one of the most prominent in her mind — were still alive.

She has never been more relieved to have a question answered.

  
  
  


Spotless. That’s what the room has to be, and considering it hasn’t seen a single person in five years, he has a lot of work to do.

Lady Rhea’s room gives him a nostalgic but sad feeling the more he looks at it, which is part of the reason he’s made himself busy in the first place. He always considered tidying her quarters one of his most important jobs, and that hasn’t changed, but he wishes she were around to see it.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been working when he hears a knock on the doorframe, but he continues to scrub the floor as he turns to see who it is. Lysithea stands there, making no move to enter, with what he thinks is a bottle in her hand.

“Hey, Lysithea. Can I help you?”

“Seteth told me you’ve been cleaning here for a while.” She raises the bottle. “I thought you might be thirsty, so I put some water in here for you. If you want it.”

It’s only then that he realises how parched he is, and he sets his tools down so he can retrieve the water. “Thanks,” is all he says before downing a good third of the bottle’s contents.

“I was going to bring you food, too, but it would be counterproductive if you ended up making a mess all over the Archbishop’s floor,” she explains while he drinks. “And it would be a shame, too. You’ve done such a good job.”

“I’m just doing my job. It’s what I did while Lady Rhea was here, and she deserves a clean room to come back to.”

_ If she comes back _ , the grating voice in the back of his mind says, and he pushes it down, forces it back into the hole it comes from. There is no place for that kind of thinking here.

His doubt must show on his face because Lysithea says, “We’ll find her. I’m positive she’s alive.”

The conviction in her voice should be something to expect from her, who always seems confident — if not a little stubborn — with her opinions, but he doesn’t think he’s heard anyone outside the more devout knights speak of Lady Rhea’s survival with such positivity. With them, he knows it comes from their faith and their desire to see the person they serve safe because they treasure her so much. Lysithea is more logical than that. Like him, she isn’t particularly religious, but the difference between them is her lack of personal connection to Rhea.

When he doesn’t respond, she continues. “If the Empire had taken Lady Rhea’s life, they would have announced as much. It would send the believers into disarray, something for them to take advantage of. They wouldn’t remain silent about it. If they have captured her, and it’s likely that they have, I believe she must be being kept somewhere. That is just another reason why winning this war is so important.”

She brings up some valid points, and his lips curve upwards from where they rest against his water bottle. “Thanks, Lysithea.”

And just like that, the smile is back. He hasn’t seen it in five years, and one would think he would have forgotten it by now, but it surprises him just how much he missed it. It occurs to him that seeing that smile more often may just be worth asking for a bit of help here and there.

“There’s no need to thank me, Cyril,” she says, turning to leave, only to stop by the doorframe. “Make sure you come down for dinner, okay? Regardless of whether you’ve completed your work. We need you to be at your strongest.”

She doesn’t wait for a reply before leaving, and he listens to her footsteps echo down the hall before carefully placing the drink bottle on the bedpost and returning to his work. He makes a note to visit the dining hall before the day is done.

  
  
  


_ “I think you’re pretty when you smile.” _

It was just a compliment, only a single sentence, and yet she can’t shake it from her mind.

It’s been a good few days since Cyril once again asked for her help in reading a list. Since he admitted he liked having her read things to him. Since he told her she was pretty when she smiled.

Her traitorous cheeks heat up at the thought, and it would be one thing if she were in the privacy of her own room, but she’s having a cup of tea in the very public dining hall. It isn’t as busy, being between lunch and dinner, but there are still people around all the same, and the last thing she needs is to be discovered.

She doesn’t know what others would discover, exactly, but she isn’t keen on finding out.

It’s just her luck that when she finally comes to her senses, a hand is already being waved in front of her face and an annoyingly familiar voice has already started talking her ear off.

“Lysithea? Helloooooo?” Hilda waves her hand once more for good measure before deciding she finally has her attention. “Ah, there you are. It’s rare to see you with your head so high in the clouds.”

Lysithea sips her tea slightly longer than necessary. “My head is right where it’s supposed to be.”

“Well, it is now,” Hilda starts, leaning her elbows on the table, “but it wasn’t. What’s got you thinking so hard?”

Cyril’s words once again echo in her mind, red adorning her pale cheeks, and she keeps her head low in an attempt to hide them from Hilda. “Nothing in particular.”

For someone as lazy as Hilda, she can pay attention to detail when interested enough, and Lysithea knows she’s doomed when she hears her coo. “Aw, your cheeks are red! Is it embarrassing? I have to admit, I’m curious now.”

“I said it’s nothing!”

She chooses then to look up, which is her first mistake. Cyril chooses that exact moment to walk into the dining hall. He is speaking to Ignatz, but when their angle changes as they head towards the kitchen, his eyes meet hers and he smiles just the tiniest bit. She manages a small, almost minuscule smile in greeting, willing her face to keep cool. Her resistance is futile.

Naturally, Hilda notices everything.

“You’re turning into a tomato,” she says, and though Lysithea has returned to staring at her tea, she can hear the smirk in her voice. “Could it be that it has something to do with our pal Cyril over there?”

The last drop of Lysithea’s tea disappears from her cup and she takes the opportunity to leave this fruitless conversation. She will swear up and down that she isn’t escaping as she stands and says, “Or maybe I’m just catching a cold.”

And with that, she takes her empty teacup and walks away, ignoring Hilda’s giggles.

  
  
  


The next time he passes a book stall in town, Cyril finds himself staring at the covers, slowly piecing together letters and words and sounding them out under his breath. He becomes so absorbed in reading each and every title that he completely forgets that he came here with Shamir and doesn’t notice her approach behind him.

“I didn’t know you were into reading.”

Cyril has long since learned not to jump when Shamir sneaks up on him, but he can’t completely conceal his surprise as he turns around. “Uh… I’m not, really.”

If this confuses Shamir, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she picks up one of the books and flips through it with a dull interest. “To be honest, I was under the impression you couldn’t read.”

Her statement makes his stomach lurch. If Shamir’s noticed, who else has? The question must be apparent in his expression as she’s quick to say, “Don’t worry, I don’t think anyone else noticed. Why the sudden interest?”

“Well, I’ve started recognising some words, and Lysithea said it’d be good for me to learn how to read,” he explains. “She said if I applied myself I’d be able to read and write in no time, but… I dunno if I have time for that.”

“Lysithea’s right, it’s a worthwhile skill,” Shamir says, offering the shopkeeper a handful of currency with one hand, the other clutching one of the many books under her arm. “It could save you a lot of time. Here, this one will be a good one to start with.”

She tosses the book in his direction and he catches it without difficulty. It’s second hand, the cover slightly worn, and from what he can make out from the title, it seems to be a sort of folk tale.

He holds it against his chest with one arm and follows Shamir.

  
  
  


Lysithea knows by now that Cyril is a frequent visitor of the library, but she can’t help but stop when she enters and sees him sitting at one of the back tables with an open book in front of him.

As curious as ever, she approaches, but doesn’t sit down in case she isn’t entirely welcome. Cyril doesn’t notice her at first, and she takes the time to watch the way he mimes the words with his mouth and how his brow furrows in concentration. Despite not being able to hear anything, she can tell that his reading is faster than that time in her quarters, and she swells with pride at how far he’s come in such a short amount of time.

Unable to help herself, she asks, “What are you reading?”

Cyril starts, sitting straighter in his chair. He relaxes slightly upon seeing her face. “It’s a story Ashe recommended to me. I’ve been trying to read more lately, like you said. I’m still not all that good at it, though.”

Lysithea slides into the seat beside him but doesn’t impose any more than that. “From the looks of it, you’re doing remarkably well. Have you been learning all on your own?”

“Yeah, I didn’t want to bother anyone else with it,” he says, angling the book towards her. She gives it a good speed-read.

“I wouldn’t mind helping,” she says, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. She really does like feeling useful, and it would be a good distraction to the war raging outside the monastery walls. “If there are any words you need help with I’d be happy to tell you what they are and what they mean.”

Cyril’s finger tentatively slides across one of the page’s many lines. “Well, there were a few that I couldn’t get right…”

She doesn’t know how long they sit there, him reading and her assisting him with words he can’t quite grasp, barely paying attention to the time at all. She only feels the weight of those hours when her head droops into her hand and her gaze is bleary as she watches Cyril repeat words back to her. He has a nice voice, she thinks, but it soon interrupts itself with a yawn. She comes to her senses.

“It’s getting late,” she says, able to tell by the lack of noise in the hallway. “We should probably head to bed. We can do this another time.”

Cyril seems surprised at the suggestion. “Another time? You don’t mind doing it again?”

“Of course,” she says. Her smile is tired, but gentle, and afterwards she will blame how tired she is on what she says next. “I like hearing you read things to me, too, you know. Goodnight, Cyril.”

All she sees is a light tinge of pink adorning his cheeks before she makes for the door. A soft, “Goodnight” follows her out.

  
  
  


It is well into the early morning when Cyril finally gives up on sleeping. The tossing and turning is starting to make him uncomfortable, and some fresh air would do him some good.

With a long coat to cover his bed clothes, he slips out of his quarters and into the night, careful not to make too much noise. He’s sure that everyone else is already having a difficult time sleeping as it is with everything that’s going on and he doesn’t want to make it harder for them. He remains barefoot for that exact reason.

He wanders without a destination in mind, his feet moving forward, heading in a single direction until he finds himself on the bridge leading to the cathedral. The structure looms in the distance, tall and imposing, but that isn’t what grabs his attention. His gaze rests on the person standing by the bridge’s edge, protected only by the wall surrounding it.

Lysithea.

Her hair is free of its veil and accessories and the breeze gently pushes it back. She wears a shawl over what he can only assume are her night clothes. What really catches his attention is her expression. It isn’t the smile that he’s come to know and — (love? Yes, he loves her smile) — but a sombre face that is too old to be on such a young face. He can’t help but wonder what she’s thinking about.

“Lysithea?” His voice is soft, but with the rustling of far away leaves being the only other sound, he knows he’s been heard.

She’s surprised to see him, he can tell, but she doesn’t tell him to go away. Instead, she remains where she is and says, “Can you not sleep either?”

He stands beside her with his arms on top of the protective wall. “Nah. Too much tossing and turning tonight.”

She nods. “Me too.”

They’re silent for a while, gazing at the nighttime scenery. He thinks that if he were alone, he would find being here at night eerie, but Lysithea’s presence is a comforting one. He thinks it always has been. Even when they were younger and he refused her help in just about every way possible for the longest time, her steadfast approach was something he had always admired. It’s something he  _ still  _ admires.

The wind picks up. He pulls his coat further over his shoulders and Lysithea goes to do the same with her shawl, but it slips between her fingers and is carried away by the gale. She reaches out to the extent of leaning her whole body over the wall, but Cyril already has it in his hand. It’s a little wrinkled from the desperation in which he grabbed it, but it survived, and he offers it to Lysithea.

She plants both feet back on the ground and takes it, mumbling a thank you, but his focus is already elsewhere. The absence of fabric over her shoulders leaves them exposed, and his eyes are drawn to a faded mark right beneath her left shoulder. The memory of its making is fresh in his mind despite being five years ago.

She notices him looking and follows his line of sight, touching the mark once she realises what has caught his interest. “I keep forgetting it’s there.”

He thinks it’s supposed to be comforting, but all it does is remind him that they all continue to injure themselves in one battle only to march out the next day to another. It reminds him of just how much time they’ve spent doing just that, how both long and short of a duration it seems.

Most importantly, it reminds him that Lysithea is just as human as the rest of them, that she can be injured — or  _ worse  _ — at any moment.

The realisation (if it can really be called that, since really, he knew this from the beginning) causes an upset in his stomach. He would give his life if it meant everyone was that much closer to rescuing Lady Rhea, but he also knows that the others are willing to sacrifice themselves in battle, whether for the same or a different reason, and Lysithea is no exception. None of them are.

Yet the image of Lysithea falling on the battlefield is one he can’t bear to think about.

Forcing such thoughts from his mind, he once again looks at the scarred wound and says, “I’m sorry.”

Her finger, which was tracing the faint line, stops. She looks at him. “What for?”

“You got hurt because of me.” Saying it out loud makes it even more real and he frowns. “I never got to thank you for it, either.”

She shakes her head. “It isn’t something you need to thank me for, or say sorry for.” Her lips remain parted, as if she wants to say something else, and there is something about the way she looks at him that makes him want to move closer, but he doesn’t. If he did, they would be close enough to hear each other’s breathing.

“Those five years,” she begins, breaking the spell he’s under, “I had no clue whether you were alive or not. I would sometimes — sometimes wonder whether you made it out, or…”

She doesn’t finish her sentence, but he understands what she’s trying to say anyway. He never had the same problem, hearing bits and pieces of what was happening around Fodlan, including the Ordelia household. Although he didn’t hear too much with most of the Alliance news coming from Riegan, Gloucester, or Goneril territory, he always knew that word would spread fast if any notable member of the noble families passed, Lysithea included. It never occurred to him that she may have thought of  _ his  _ safety all those years.

“I’m here now,” he says, and it’s such a ridiculous thing to say when he’s right in front of her, but he watches the way her body relaxes and knows he’s said the right thing.

She smiles. “Yes, you are.”

  
  
  


On the battlefield, Lysithea feels lost when she runs out of magic power. It doesn’t happen often, but as the battles they face bring them every step closer to Enbarr, she knows the possibility becomes more and more likely. She can’t let herself be vulnerable in the midst of a fight, which is why she has focused more of her attention on training with a bow and arrow.

She isn’t terrible. She hits each target, but her bulls-eyes are few and far between, and that isn’t good enough. If she doesn’t finish the enemy fast enough, they’ll close the distance and she’ll be done for. Every moment counts in battle.

Another round of arrows later and she’s gotten close to the bulls-eye, but not close enough. She sighs as she begins collecting the arrows for yet another try. Practice makes perfect, after all, and she won’t rest until she’s satisfied.

She retrieves the last arrow just as someone says, “Lysithea?”

Cyril’s voice usually puts her at ease, especially these days, but not today. She is very aware that she’s using one of his most preferred weapons, and rather poorly at that. She has always tried her hardest to appear competent around others, but him in particular, and the idea of showing her lack of ability isn’t a welcome one.

Of course, Cyril is oblivious to all of this. He walks towards her and asks, “Are you training with a bow?”

There wouldn’t be any point in lying. “I am.” She attempts feigning confidence, but she doubts it will work. “If I ran out of magic on the battlefield, I’ll be left without a way to defend myself. I can’t let that happen.”

He nods. “Yeah, that’s why I bring my axe, just in case I run out of arrows.” She focuses on tidying the arrows, but she can feel his gaze lingering on her. “Do you want some help?”

She stops. Her reflex action is to say that she doesn’t, to snap at him like she would others, but she doesn’t want to do that. Not to Cyril. Instead, she says, “I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You’re not asking.” He takes a few steps, moving closer. “I’m offering. How else am I supposed to pay you back for all those times you helped me with my reading?”

“You don’t have to pay me back,” she says, but she readies herself in front of the first target anyway.

She hears him approach behind her. “But I want to, and we can start with your stance. You can’t think about your stance all the time in the heat of battle, but if you get it right during training, it’ll just become muscle memory. Turn to the side a bit more.”

She does as she’s told, feeling a gentle hand on her back as she shuffles. “Like this?”

“Yeah, that’s better. Now raise your arms a little — hold on.”

The hand removes itself from her back and reappears on her forearm. Its companion touches her wrist, guiding it upwards. To ensure he can reach both arms, Cyril is pressed lightly against her back, and while she can’t see his face, she knows it’s close to her ear when he speaks.

“There,” he says, stepping back, and she immediately misses the smell of oak trees and soil. “Try that.”

She does. The arrow flies right to the target’s centre, settling perfectly into the old cloth. She’s surprised, not due to any lack of faith in Cyril’s teaching ability, but because she was able to pull it off. She doesn’t know how long it would have taken her to hit the centre if not for Cyril’s basic knowledge.

“You’re a good teacher,” she says, spinning around to face him, only to stop short. 

He’s smiling at her with warmth in his eyes. This isn’t the first time he’s shown her that expression, but she has never seen it so close before. He only stepped back as far as he had to for her to take the shot, and so the distance between them reminds her of that night on the bridge not too long ago, but this time the lack of sun isn’t hiding the details of his expression.

She thinks she understands what he means about people being pretty when they smile.

“I’m not. Not really,” he says, and she remembers that she complimented him just now. “I’m just telling you what Shamir told me.”

“And I’m sure you have your own way of teaching compared to her,” she says, not missing a beat. “Just some minor adjustments under your direction and I was able to succeed. Don’t disregard your own achievements.”

The smile widens and, somewhere in the back of her mind, she wonders just how far gone she is.

  
  
  


Even in the air, Cyril is surrounded. The enemy has far more pegasus knights than expected and his arrow number is quickly decreasing. Shot after shot after shot, it never ends when he thinks it will. There is always another enemy ready to charge at him and he has to keep eyes in the back of his head.

When he finally breaks through, he takes a look around. The fliers appear to have been dealt with and so he focuses on the soldiers on the ground below. He can’t tell who’s winning yet, but knowing wouldn’t stop him from the way he swoops lowers, towards the side of the fight so he isn’t caught up completely in the swarm.

He catches some foot soldiers unawares with the arrows he does have left. He doesn’t give much thought to what he’s doing aside from identifying enemies, leaving most of his actions to muscle memory. He can’t afford to hesitate when they have a war to win.

He’s about to fire another arrow when he spots white hair out of the corner of his eye, and he rises in the air so he can see her better. When he does, his heart lurches and he redirects his wyvern to fly in her direction.

The tips of Lysithea’s hair are covered in varying shades of red, the amount of dark brown proving just how long they have been fighting for. Her clothes are equally as dirty and have numerous holes in them, and even from afar he can see the way her jaw clenches as she uses spell after spell. This isn’t the best fight she’s had by far, and he can see the enemy starting to circle around her.

He won’t let them close in.

The loaded arrow in his quiver sails overhead before he can register letting the string go. He either has impeccable aim or is just lucky, as the arrow lands in the neck of the soldier sneaking up behind Lysithea, and he barely has time to clutch his throat before falling to the ground.

He isn’t the only one to attempt a sneak attack on the young mage, however, and Cyril finds himself reaching for another arrow. He grasps at thin air. His arrows are gone and, in a single movement, he slings his bow over his shoulder and slides the axe out of the holster attached to his leg. He pulls the wyvern’s reins and they reach her side just in time for him to bury his axe in an enemy’s side.

“Cyril!” Lysithea doesn’t look at him, can’t afford to tear her eyes away from the battle, but he doesn’t need her to.

“I’ve got your back,” he tells her, hacking at an archer before they have a chance to move backwards and shoot.

They don’t exchange words after that, but they don’t need to, the two of them working in tandem. Cyril handles the frontline fighters while Lysithea aims for those creeping at the back. They make a formidable team like this and, if this weren’t such a dire situation, he may have enjoyed himself.

But this is war, and the enemy won’t let him forget that.

He knows what meteor looks like when being cast from the few times he has seen Dorothea use it. He also knows that it’s incredibly powerful, potentially deadly, and that an enemy mage is looking right at Lysithea while casting it.

Logically, he knows that between the two of them, Lysithea has the higher chance of surviving a dark magic spell. It isn’t so much the magic itself that he’s worried about, but the way the ground shatters and throws rocks in every direction. The last thing he wants is for her to be crushed under the rubble. That’s why, without saying a word, he jumps off his wyvern and tackles her to the ground, using himself as her personal shield.

Her eyes are wide and panicked, but he can’t answer her unasked question as he feels the power of meteor against his back. She cries out at his shout of pain, yet her refuses to move, not when she could be in danger if he does.

A choked, “Cyril!” is all he hears before the world goes dark.

  
  
  


The sound of healers scurrying around the infirmary is white noise to Lysithea. She doesn’t know how long she’s been sitting in the chair at Cyril’s bedside, gaze fixed on a crease in the bedsheets, just that she has stayed in the same spot since Marianne told her that Cyril would be fine and that she could see him. Coming here was supposed to make her feel better, to calm her down once she saw Cyril alive and on the path to recovery.

Seeing him so still, unmoving save for the rise and fall of his chest, only makes her feel worse.

She doesn’t abandon him, though. He saved her life and was willing to do so for the price of his own, and while she is immensely grateful, she doesn’t understand what possessed him to go to such lengths. The way he grit his teeth and cried out in pain is seared into her memory. It’s all she can see when she closes her eyes.

It isn’t long before Cyril has another visitor. Lysithea wouldn’t have been alerted to Shamir’s presence had she not entered her line of sight, but she does, saving Lysithea the scare. They remain silent for a while, watching Cyril. At least, Lysithea watches Cyril. She doesn’t pay enough attention to tell if Shamir is doing the same.

Eventually, Shamir says, “He wouldn’t want you to be so torn up over this.”

She knows that. Cyril would want her to continue living her life as normal, but the guilt is still too consuming for her to do much else. The battle has only been over for a few hours and Manuela said he wouldn’t wake for at least a few more, but she knows that if she were to leave and go elsewhere, her thoughts would wind up here all the same. At least her staying here means she doesn’t have to wonder if he’s doing okay.

“I know,” she says, voice croaky. “But he almost died for me. I think I’m allowed to feel at least a little responsible.”

She can feel Shamir’s gaze on her, but she doesn’t meet it. Silence falls across the room once more. Even speaking is exhausting right now.

“As long as you rest soon,” Shamir says, already heading towards the door. “We need you at your best.”

No one enters the room after that. Manuela and the other healers are tending to those who don’t require bed rest and all the other patients who were here initially have woken up and returned to their own quarters to heal. Right now, it’s just the two of them. Lysithea doesn’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing.

The wind rustles the curtains, letting in the sunlight. Destruction and chaos are commonplace right now, yet the sun is able to continue shining, continue existing as if nothing is wrong. Light falls across Cyril’s forehead, highlighting the hair stuck to his face. It’s tousled from the force of battle and she reaches out to brush some stray strands from his eyes. Her fingertips hover over his scar.

Despite the amount of pain he must have endured, his face is relaxed, and she supposes that it’s a small comfort that he can’t feel anything while asleep. A smudge of dirt remains on his cheek and she swipes it away with her thumb, cupping said cheek in the process. He leans into the touch and, for a brief moment, she wonders whether he is more conscious than she thought, but his eyes remain closed and his breathing is still even. Fondness swells in her chest.

Then she realises just what she is doing, just what path she is letting herself go down, and she lifts her hand as though she’s just been burned. She stares at his face and wills herself to be rid of her feelings, but her efforts are futile. Sheer will isn’t enough to stop the butterflies in her stomach.

This time she asks herself properly:  _ how far gone am I? _

  
  
  


When Cyril wakes up, everything is dark. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust, and when they do, he realises he is in the infirmary. His wounds choose that exact moment to ache and the pain reminds him of the reason he ended up here in the first place. Him being the only person in the infirmary is a good sign, but he still can’t help but wonder whether his comrades are alright.

Light footsteps alert him to someone’s presence in the hallway, and he wonders if he should pretend to be asleep until white hair rounds the corner, spread across a familiar shawl, and he is wide awake. She stands straighter once she notices him sitting up, almost standing at attention at the sight of him.

“Cyril!” she starts, but cringes at how loud her voice is and lowers it. “You’re awake.”

“I just woke up,” he says, frowning as he clears his throat, his voice raspy from not being used for so long.

“I’ll get you some water.” Lysithea opens the cupboards until she finds a glass to use, filling it in a nearby sink before handing it to him.

He takes it as she sits in the chair beside his bed. “Thanks,” he says, and is reminded of when she brought him water while he worked all those moons ago. So much has happened since then.

“Do you need anything else?” she asks once he decides he’s had enough to drink.

He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Do you know how long I have to stay here? Or how long it’s been? I don’t wanna get too behind on my work.”

She frowns. “You need to rest for now, otherwise you’ll hurt yourself again and you’ll end up right back here. But it hasn’t been too long, less than a day. It’s about two-thirty in the morning right now.”

He sighs, but he knows she’s right. He won’t be able to be nearly as efficient if he works himself to death. Literally. “Why are you up?”

“I was too worried to sleep,” is Lysithea’s instant answer, and her brain seems to be running a little slower than her mouth if the way her eyes widen at her own words is anything to go by. She lowers her gaze to where his free hand rests on the bed. “I, well… You could’ve  _ died  _ protecting me, Cyril. Of course I was worried.”

He knows she likely wants to be told that he won’t do it again, but he can’t lie to her like that. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t want ya to get hurt.”

“I would’ve been okay, I’m tougher than I look.” There is a pause where he can tell she wants to say something more, if the  _ fixated  _ glare at his sheets is anything to go by. “...But thank you. You had me worried sick, but thank you.”

He settles himself further into his bed, tilting his head so he can see her face better. So  _ she  _ can see  _ him  _ properly. He smiles when her eyes flicker his way.

“You’re welcome.”

  
  
  


“I need some tea. And some cake, if you have any.”

Without waiting for a response, Lysithea shoves her way into Lorenz’s room as the latter protests her lack of manners, but desperate times call for desperate measures. She wastes no time in sitting in one of the chairs he keeps on hand for visitors and waits for him to join her.

Lorenz must realise he isn’t getting out of this one as he sighs and shuts the door, heading over to the small makeshift kitchenette (mainly just a desk with a kettle on it) he’s had since his school days. “Is crescent-moon tea alright with you?”

“More than,” she says, grateful that he has one of her favourites on hand.

Lorenz doesn’t say anything more until they are both sitting at his little tea table with dainty cups and small slices of cake. He takes a sip, swallows, and says, “What do I owe this visit?”

It’s only then that she falters, her grip on the teacup’s handle tightening. “I need… I need advice. Or rather, I know what I  _ should  _ do, but…”

Lorenz leans forward, his concern apparent. “Is everything alright?”

“It’s nothing dire,” she assures, deciding that setting her cup down while she explains would be best for both of them. “I just don’t have any experience with matters like this, and I don’t know if you do, either, but… Not many people know about my  _ situation _ . You’re the only person I can come to with this.”

Lorenz’s mouth sets in a tight line, something that always happens when she either mentions or alludes to her early death. “I see.” He sets his own cup down. “You can tell me anything, you know that.”

She nods, aware of this, but she can’t quite look him in the eye as she starts to explain. “You know that I have no future. Really, it’s a miracle I’ve made it this far. I have maybe five years left at most, if the estimations are accurate. I have no issues with risking my life for this war effort, but… I can’t give my life to anyone. Not when I barely have a life to give.”

She has faith that Lorenz will understand her words, and she knows they’ve sunk in when his eyes widen and he leans back in his chair. “Has someone taken an interest in you?”

“No,” she says, perhaps a bit too quickly. “At least, not that I know of. I was talking more from… my end of things.”

“I see. You love someone, but you feel as though you can’t be with them.” The wistful expression he wears intrigues her, but decides that it isn’t her place to ask. Not now, anyway. “And you don’t know how they feel?”

Sometimes she thinks she does. Sometimes she sees Cyril’s kind smile and warm eyes and wonders if she is the only person who gets to see him in such a way, but that is more than likely her wishful thinking. And what place does she have to wish anyway? Involving herself romantically with anyone will only end in heartbreak. She knows this, and to get anyone’s hopes up, including her own, would just be too cruel.

“I don’t,” she says. “And I don’t think I’ll ever ask.”

“Are you afraid they’ll say no?”

“I’m afraid they’ll say yes.”

Lorenz, to his credit, doesn’t ask why that is. He’s smart enough to figure it out. He closes his eyes and takes another sip of his tea, silent as the two of them process their thoughts. She takes a bite of the cake in an attempt to ease her mind. It doesn’t work.

Lorenz’s cup hits its saucer with a tone of finality, and she knows he wants to speak before he opens his mouth. “Lysithea, if you told someone about your predicament and they still wanted to be with you, how would you respond?”

Lysithea hadn’t thought of that. She always assumed that admitting her short lifespan to anyone interested would turn them off forever, so much so that she never considered that their devotion may be stronger than that. Part of her hopes it is. A larger part of her doesn’t.

“I would tell them that I can’t put them through that, regardless of how I feel about them.” She imagines it for a moment: Cyril telling her he loves her, that he wants to be with her, along with her denial and the reason why. It’s too much for her to bear.

The mere thought of it has her tearing up.

Before she can utter another word, Lorenz is at her side, wrapping his arms around her and letting her cry into his shoulder. She allows herself a moment of weakness as she seeks comfort for something she never thought she would have to.

  
  
  


When Shamir off-handedly suggests he write a letter once his spelling and grammar improve, there is no question as to who said letter will be addressed to. Lysithea is not only the person who advised he learn how to read and write in the first place, but she is also the one who has helped him the most, from sitting down and reading with him to giving him her own advice on how to remember different words and terms. Perhaps he is a quick study as she always says, but he wouldn’t have made it nearly as far without her guidance.

At first, he stares at the mostly blank parchment, wondering what he should start with. Having never written a letter before, he can’t think of how to begin other than the ‘ _ Dear Lysithea _ ’ he’s already put down. He took extra care when writing her name, wanting to ensure he has it right before sending it her way. He remembers the day she taught him how to spell it with a fond smile.

In fact, there isn’t much about Lysithea that  _ doesn’t  _ make him react with fondness. She has always been so kind and patient with him, always wanting to see him do better and always wanting him to be safe. She is one of the youngest in the army, just like him, but she has always carried herself with an air of confidence in everything she does, even if he can tell by now when it’s all an act or not. It’s endearing whenever she gets riled up over Claude’s teasing and how she pretends not to have a huge sweet tooth. He chuckles to himself at the scene she made in the dining hall over Felix’s distaste for the dessert of the day a few nights ago.

As much as he wishes he could convey that all in a letter, he doesn’t think he could do his thoughts justice, and so he keeps it simple. He describes his progress and tells her just how good of a friend she is to him, all the while imagining the look on her face as she reads it. Will she smile that smile he loves so much? He hopes so.

The image of her smile in his mind is what motivates him to set his quill to work.

  
  
  


They’ve won.

It doesn’t register at first. Her focus is solely on the fight, making her way through waves of enemies. She tries not to think about the fight in the heart of the throne room that she is sure is happening right now, knowing that doing so will not benefit her in any way, that she should focus on the people she can protect around her. That is, until she hears the shouts of victory coming from her battalion and she allows herself to stop.

It’s only then that she realises that no more of the Adrestian forces are coming to take a jab or slash at her and she finally lowers her staff. She looks around. Despite having felt so outnumbered while marching, and then again at the beginning of the battle, she spots more casualties among the Empire more than anything else. It’s only then that she starts looking around for her friends.

Hilda and Marianne are hugging and crying, seconds away from becoming a heap on the floor with the way they stagger. Raphael’s cheers can be heard above the crowd and Lorenz rests on the back of Claude’s wyvern as a healer tends to his injured leg. The more Lysithea searches, the more familiar faces she finds.

On what feels like her tenth scan of the room, her gaze locks with Cyril’s, and she can’t stop the beaming smile that spreads across her face at the sight of him. He has blood all over him and there are marks on his torso that will likely scar later, but she has never been so relieved to see anyone in her entire life. She wonders if he feels the same way when she sees the way he’s grinning from ear to ear. A selfish, wishful part of her hopes he does.

Living completely in the moment, she musters up the last burst of energy she can and rushes forward, making a beeline for him. His arms are already spread when she meets him and she lets out a teary laugh when he picks her up and spins her around.

“We did it,” she all but cries when he sets her down, neither of them moving away from each other.

“We did,” he says, voice rough, but full of relief. 

Her hand reaches up to touch the slashes across his chest. She is by no means an expert on healing magic, but she knows enough, and she lets the remains of her magic flow through her hand. He closes his eyes and keeps him that way until she’s finished, until the lines are no longer bleeding and have faded so that they aren’t visible anymore.

“Thank you,” he says, opening his eyes again. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Her smile is softer now that the high of victory is starting to wear off. “I know. I just wanted to.”

  
  
  


Cyril’s quarters are the best place for him to have any semblance of privacy, if only because he rarely receives visitors. The only person who comes somewhat frequently is Seteth, who will give him odd jobs to do. That is what he assumed Seteth was about to tell him this morning when he stopped by, but all he was given was the most terrible, horrible,  _ heart-wrenching _ news he had received in a long, long time.

_ Lady Rhea doesn’t have much time left. _

That was how Seteth phrased it, perhaps omitting the word  _ ‘dying’  _ in an attempt to spare Cyril’s feelings, but it’s no use. It doesn’t stop him from crying into his hands as he sits on the edge of his bed. His shoulders shake and he sobs like a child, something he will never admit to anyone else.

He knows he was never the most important person in Lady Rhea’s life, but she was the most important in his from the moment she took him in, and he hasn’t realised just how much he depended on her giving him opportunities and a place to live until now.

A light knocking drags him from his thoughts and he covers his mouth with his hand in an attempt to stop any more childish noises from leaving him. No one needs to know he’s crying. He can handle this himself.

Except he can’t. That much is evident from the moment the door opens and he sees Lysithea, worry painted all over her face. He turns away in an effort to hide himself, wrapping his arms around his middle like a protective barrier, but it’s no use. He hears her shut the door behind her and approach him with light footsteps. The bed dips slightly as she sits next to him.

“Oh, Cyril,” she whispers, and that’s all it takes for him to turn around. He buries his face in her neck and holds onto her like a lifeline while she does nothing but embrace him and rub slow circles against his back.

He doesn’t know how long they sit there for. It can’t be a comfortable angle, but she never complains, never says anything. All she offers is her presence, and that is more than enough for him.

  
  
  


It is finally time for her to return to Ordelia territory. Her presence is no longer required at the monastery, and as much as she wants to spend more time with her friends and comrades, her responsibilities to her family come first.

After all, she doesn’t know how long she has left.

Professor Hanneman may have assured her that he would do his best to find a cure for her and her crests, but she had learned long ago not to put too much hope in such things. For all she knows, this could be her last time at Garreg Mach. Her last time seeing those that reside there.

The thought makes her stop, her hand pausing on the last bag she has to pack before she leaves. Garreg Mach itself may not be a place she intends to return to, but the people have been nothing but kind and hospitable to her, some more so than others. To leave things as they are when this could be her final goodbye is far from ideal.

She resolves to say goodbye to everyone she can before she leaves, at least, but there is still something that doesn’t sit quite right. She ponders on it as she folds a dress to fit in her suitcase, and it’s only moments later that it comes to her.

_ Cyril _ .

The idea of leaving him with a normal farewell leaves her empty. She knows that she will never have the courage to tell him to his face how she feels, especially when she knows she has less than a decade to live, but she also feels like she owes him  _ something _ , like a forewarning or an explanation. She doesn’t have to, she  _ knows  _ she doesn’t have to, but she  _ wants  _ to.

She drops the article of clothing in her hands and pulls out spare parchment and ink instead.

  
  
  


He stares at the letter in his hands. Catherine delivered to him after dinner, right before he left for his quarters, and so he lies on his bed and holds it up high, wondering if he should open it. Catherine told him it’s from Lysithea, but all that does is confuse him. Lysithea left earlier today, didn’t she? Why didn’t she give this to him herself?

The thought of Lysithea returning to her territory leaves a hole in his heart, and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to fill it, but perhaps this letter can be of some solace.

With that in mind, he opens the letter and starts to read.

_ Dear Cyril, _

_ I’m sorry that I’m telling you this via letter instead of face to face. It may be cowardly of me, but you once told me that there are some things that are easier to write than to say. This is one of those times. I hope you can forgive me. _

_ Before I start, I want you to know that you are the only person I have told this purely because I wanted to and not because I felt obligated to for the sake of those around me. You are someone I have come to care for and trust, and telling you this would also ease my mind. _

_ I’m not sure if you remember the mages in the Adrestian Empire’s forces who weren’t actually from the empire, but a long time ago, when I was an infant, some of them gained control over the Ordelia household. They performed rigorous experiments on all the children of the family, and to this day, I am unsure of what they were looking for, but all of them passed on except me. I was their only success. I was given two crests, and once they saw that they had succeeded, they disappeared and I never saw them again. _

_ On the surface, two crests may seem like a wonderful thing, but it came with a price. My lifespan was shortened. As of now, I have maybe five years to live, if that. Professor Hanneman is searching for a way to reverse the damage those mages caused me, but there is no guarantee that he will find anything. _

_ Perhaps it is presumptuous of me to think my death would affect you, but I wanted you to know, anyway. You are someone I have spent so much time with, someone I am going to miss deeply when I am gone. Maybe this is only for my own benefit than yours, and if so, I am truly sorry. _

_ With that, there are some other things I wish to tell you that I am too cowardly to say in person. The first is that I know you will achieve great things. You are a formidable warrior, a determined soldier, and an amazing human being. You have been through so much in your life, yet you insist on helping others wherever you can. You are a selfless person, Cyril, and I will never not admire you for that. _

_ Whatever you decide to do, wherever you decide to go, know that I will always be with you in spirit. _

_ Love, _ _   
_ _ Lysithea von Ordelia _

It takes him a while to read every word, and once he does, emotions stir within him. He doesn’t know how to describe what he just read, of the anger he feels at what Lysithea was forced to go through, of the warmth in his chest at being told he is dear to her, of the determination and resolve he feels at the advice she leaves him with.

He stares at the inkblot at the top of the  _ ‘L’  _ in  _ ‘love’ _ , as though she hesitated using the word while writing and eventually deciding to anyway. The word itself has his stomach doing flips and it is only then that he knows what to call all the above emotions.

_ Love _ , huh?

Yeah, that sounds about right.

The hole in his chest hasn’t been filled, but he has always been the type to dare to hope, and as he holds the letter to his heart, he sends a wish to the goddess (and perhaps even Lady Rhea) that he will see her again.

  
  
  


Lysithea knows exactly what she is in for when the letter — or rather,  _ invitation  _ — arrives. It’s no secret amongst those present during the war that the professor would be one of the first among them to be married, and so it is no surprise when she reads the official declaration of their engagement. She hadn’t expected it to be so soon, what with all the rebuilding and reforming to be done in Fodlan, a few more years at least, but perhaps that is all the more reason for the wedding.

After all, what better way to lift spirits and morale than a union between two lovers?

She makes note of the RSVP date and is about to start a reply letter of her own when she notices another piece of parchment behind the proper invitation. With a frown, she separates it from the initial letter and begins to read.

_ Miss Lysithea, _

_ I apologise for delivering this along with Professor Byleth’s wedding invitation, but all of my carrier owls were out on other errands and the professor was kind enough to send this out with them. _

_ I have been dedicating the past moons on researching your crest predicament as I said I would before you left the monastery. Through correspondence with Linhardt, who as I’m sure you are aware is travelling right now, I have discovered some remnants of the mages who did this to you, and in turn, a possible way to cure you. _

_ Of course, this is only a hypothesis, but please remember that I will not rest until I find the answer for you. If you plan on attending the wedding, please stop by my office so we may discuss this further. _

_ Sincerely, _ _   
_ _ Hanneman von Essar _

She stares wide-eyed at the letter. When Hanneman vowed to assist in finding a way to remove her crests and, possibly, rid her of her ailment, she had forced herself not to put too much stock in it. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in Hanneman, not at all. She considers him to be one of the best researchers out there. No, she simply thought such a cure didn’t exist.

Now she finds herself holding onto hope, just a little.

  
  
  


Wedding planning is stressful for most, but Cyril is simply content with having something to do all day.

Granted, he isn’t part of the wedding party, but he wants to ensure the professor has a memorable day in all the right ways. They have plenty of non-wedding related issues to deal with and the least he can do is lighten their load a little when he isn’t out on knight business.

Seating plans need to be written up, and while this job has fallen to Catherine and Shamir, who have returned to the monastery early for the event after travelling together for a while, Cyril still pays attention so he knows exactly where each and every piece of furniture needs to go.

“This is too big of an event for my liking,” Shamir says. “If you ever pop the question, we’re having a private ceremony.”

Cyril would be lying if he said he isn’t amused by the way Catherine’s face turns red, but he doesn’t say anything to aggravate her further, continuing to write a shopping list of supplies needed for that week.

“That is — who exactly is confirmed to be coming?” Catherine’s change in subject isn’t gone unnoticed by Shamir, whose lips quirk upwards the slightest bit, but she leaves her be. For now.

Shamir starts listing off names, most of whom Cyril knows from fighting together during the war, and he’s glad that so many familiar faces are coming to show their support for the professor. It’s what they deserve, after all.

He is only half listening, absorbing names only as he scribbles out words he has spelled wrong, when he hears it.

“Lysithea’s attending. Her letter of confirmation arrived a few days ago.”

Cyril’s hand stops mid-scribble. He hasn’t heard anyone mention Lysithea’s name in so long, at least not out loud. He repeats it in his head all the time. Thinking about her on a regular basis is one thing, but to know she’s coming to attend the wedding? His heart beats faster just thinking about it.

“Cyril? You okay there?”

Catherine’s voice breaks through his all-consuming thoughts and he looks up, a response on the tip of his tongue. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just thinking about what else to buy.”

Catherine accepts his reply easily enough, but Shamir catches his gaze before he can look back down, and he can see that the smirk intended for Catherine a mere minute ago is now being directed at him. He doesn’t bother asking why. If anyone were to know how he feels about Lysithea, it would be Shamir.

And yet, that doesn’t stop him from writing ‘ _ Present for Lysithea? _ ’ at the bottom of his list.

  
  
  


There is something nostalgic about being in Hanneman’s office. It’s a place unaffected by time with the books and papers all in the same places as five or six years ago with only the subjects of each text changed. He hums the same melodies to himself as he searches for the correct papers and she sits in her favourite place in his office, the one between the desk and the bookshelf.

“Aha,” Hanneman says, mostly to himself, once he finds something in his second desk drawer. “I appreciate you coming a day early, Lysithea.” He sits in the chair behind his desk. “It means we don’t have to rush.”

“That was the idea,” she says, on the edge of her seat as she awaits the results of his research. “As long as I’m not a bother.”

“Not at all,” Hanneman says, opening one of the books on his desk. “Now, according to the information I’ve acquired from Linhardt from his travels and from more ancient texts I was able to procure, the reversal of your crests is just that: a reversal.”

She leans forward, as if doing so will make her able to read the documents. “A reversal?”

He nods. “Indeed. It may not be as simple as saying the spells backwards, just a bit of a more complicated version of that, but complicated doesn’t mean impossible. In fact, I’d say it’s even likely. Of course, this is just a hypothesis and I would need your permission to —”

A knock on the door interrupts him, and when it opens, Lysithea can’t help but stare.

“Excuse me, Professor Hanneman, I have —”

She thinks Cyril’s expression must mirror hers, wide eyes and flushed cheeks and all. She takes him in as she stares, not having seen him for so many moons, even if the only obvious change is his hair being slightly longer. It’s messier than it was before and she has to drive back the urge to push some strands away from his forehead.

Hanneman clears his throat and the two of them look to him. He doesn’t seem annoyed, far from it, and Lysithea feels embarrassed at how open of a book she must be right now.

“I have some letters for you, Professor Hanneman,” Cyril says, approaching the desk and handing said letters over. “Sorry for disturbing ya.”

“That’s quite alright, Cyril.”

Lysithea doesn’t miss the glance Cyril sends her way before he leaves, but it’s too quick for her to decipher, and she is left wondering what he’s thinking. Does he hate her? Is he mad at her for not telling him the contents of her letter in person? It’s all she can think about long after the door has closed behind him.

“You know,” Hanneman starts, and when she looks over, he is also looking at the door, “Cyril has been very interested in my research as of late. He already seemed to know what I was working on and has been more than eager to help in any way he possibly can.”

There is a twinkle in his eye when he looks at her, and she has to look down in order to hide the embarrassment present on her cheeks.

  
  
  


The ceremony is beautiful.

Cyril can see the effort of his and everyone else’s hard work wherever he looks in the cathedral, but the one thing he knows he can  _ never  _ say he had a hand in is the happy couple themselves. That is all their own doing, and it is clear in the way they gaze at each other with so much longing despite being only a foot or two apart throughout the entire ceremony.

Emotions are high. Alois blows his nose loudly beside him and Flayn sniffles at random intervals in the row in front. He himself can’t keep the grin off his face, his cheeks starting to ache from the strain, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Seteth can’t keep his smile at bay either, especially as he says, “You are now partners in this life and beyond. You may now kiss.”

Everyone applauds as the two share a passionate kiss, and Cyril scans the room to see everyone’s reactions. He sees cheering and crying and everything in between and his cheeks protest as his grin widens. He lets out a laugh when he hears Alois blubber once again, eyes closing at the force of it, and when he opens them again, he stops.

Lysithea’s light magenta eyes are sparkling with both shed and unshed tears, but the warm smile adorning her beautiful face puts him at ease. In that moment, she isn’t smiling at the happy couple or the chaos around her, but at him, and his heartbeat quickens at the thought.

The moment is broken as the newlyweds race out of the cathedral hand in hand, but he can’t bring himself to mind.

They have all night.

  
  
  


The reception is lively in every sense of the word. Guests dance to fast-paced music, twirling and singing while others are sat at tables, still eating their food and drinking their wine. The two stars of the evening are practically glowing in the middle of the dancefloor, staring lovingly into each other’s eyes and swaying despite the upbeat tempo of the song, and it makes Lysithea smile.

She has already danced with most of her friends at least once and, if she’s being honest, her feet are starting to hurt, but she isn’t about to let that get to her. She has been through far worse for the professor before. A few blisters is nothing.

Still, the room is rather stuffy, and she finds herself needing some air halfway through the night. Slipping out undetected is easy not only because she’s small, but because everyone is so preoccupied with the party. She won’t be missed if it’s only for a few minutes. Any longer, though, and she may find herself being dragged back inside by one of her friends.

The air is cool, but in a pleasant way that relieves her. She soaks in the night air as she wanders around the monastery grounds, avoiding any spots that may have been targets for late night trysts, and eventually finds herself at the bridge. It doesn’t surprise her that it’s deserted. All the better for her, then. She can enjoy the view in peace.

“Lysithea.”

At least, that was her intention. Butterflies swarm in her stomach, frenzied, as she turns around to face Cyril. He looks handsome in his suit (as though he doesn’t  _ always  _ look handsome to her, but she would never say so out loud), but the smile he wears is even better, and she finds herself reciprocating it.

“Hello, Cyril,” she says quietly, hands clasped low in front of her.

“I — I wanted to talk to ya,” he says. “Have been since I saw ya in Professor Hanneman’s office.”

She thought that might be the case. Nerves bubble up inside her and she lowers her gaze as she speaks.

“I’m… I’m sorry about that letter, Cyril. I genuinely didn’t know if I would ever see you again. There were too many things left unsaid that I could only seem to put on paper.” She laughs, but it’s a self-deprecating one. “I couldn’t even give it to you in person.”

“No, I — I’m glad you sent that letter,” Cyril says, moving a step or two closer. “It explained a lot of things, and yeah, it made me a little sad, but that was why I started helping Professor Hanneman with his research. I… I don’t want you to die, Lysithea.”

She finally looks up, blaming the tears in the corners of her eyes on the rampant emotions of the day. “I can’t say I like it, either, but… I’ve known I would die young from a very young age. It’s something I’ve learned how to accept. If Professor Hanneman’s theory isn’t correct, I don’t know what will happen to me. Before I died, I wanted you to at least know why.” She pauses. “And I wanted you to know how much I care.”

For a few moments, he says nothing, and she worries that he will turn around and disappear. Instead, he closes the distance between them and takes her hands in his.

“But I never got to tell you how much  _ I  _ care,” he says, voice so soft that if they weren’t so close, it would have been carried away by the wind.

“I’m sorry,” she says again. “I think I was scared of what you had to say. It’s easier to keep people at a distance so they won’t be as upset when I ultimately die. That’s always been my thought process, at least.”

His hands gently squeeze her own. “Please don’t push me away. I want to be there for you.”

He is close enough for her to see the slight blush on his cheeks, one she is sure is a near reflection of her own. It’s her turn for her grip to tighten around his. Despite all that talk of letting him go for his own sake, she finds that she can’t do it after all, not when he says things like that.

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” she says, and her voice breaks on the last word.

One of his hands leaves hers to cup her cheek, thumb brushing away a stray tear. He holds her gaze with a softer version of that intense determination she has come to know and love. Her pulse picks up and she’s certain he can hear it.

“When I think about it,” he starts slowly, as if thinking of the right words, “I think that… I think that  _ not  _ being with you at all would be way worse.”

Her lips part in surprise. “What are you trying to say?”

He swallows, his jaw suddenly tense, but he doesn’t look away.

“I love you, Lysithea.”

She never thought this moment would come. The wind is knocked out of her sails and her eyes search his for any hint of deceit, even though she knows that Cyril would never say anything like that for a joke. That would be too cruel, and he is far from it.

She rests her palm on his chest, in the exact same spot she healed those deep scratches all that time ago, and the sensation of his heartbeat under her fingertips is all she needs to spur her forward.

“I love you, Cyril. I love you, too.”

Whatever tension had worked its way into Cyril’s body evaporates the moment she utters those words, and the two of them let out breathless laughs as they hold onto each other in the dim moonlight. The barrier she insisted on building between them disappears, though really, it was never that tall in the first place. Deep down, she knows that she would be weak for him if he ever told her he felt the same way she did.

He cups her other cheek and she rests another hand on his shoulder, and when the two meet in the middle, there is nothing there but  _ them _ .

**Author's Note:**

> and hanneman was able to take away her crests giving back her lifespan and they lived happily ever after
> 
> anyway it's like 5am when i'm posting this so i can't think of anything else to say i need to go crash now zzzzzzz


End file.
